


Any Kind of Hero

by phantisma



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-24
Updated: 2006-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-13 12:25:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/503521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantisma/pseuds/phantisma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam’s always looked at Dean with a  certain kind of hero worship, Dean doesn’t think he deserves it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Any Kind of Hero

When Dean was twelve, Sammy had called him his superhero. Dean hadn’t done much to earn the title, just did the things big brothers were called upon to do…make sure there weren’t any ghosts or monsters in the closet or under the bed, taught Sam how to microwave his spaghettios, showed him what a good salt line looked like, held him after a nightmare so that he could go back to sleep.

Dean didn’t think it was all that special. But Sam did.

Dean wasn’t twelve anymore. Hadn’t been for a long time. Sam still looked at him like that though sometimes. Like he was Superman. It ate him up inside. Dean knew he wasn’t any kind of hero.

Sam was sixteen…and in the course of the last six months he’d sprouted a good four inches, and acted more like a teenager than Dean ever had. He was as tall as Dean now, maybe an inch or so taller, and he had a harder body than any athlete Dean ever saw, a body sculpted through hard training and lean budgets…and the competition between them.

The fact that Dean noticed his brother’s body was only a part of the problem. He wasn’t a child any more. He wasn’t a little boy following his big brother around. He was there, in Dean’s face, all the time. Sam had no sense of personal space. None.

“For god’s sake, Sam, put some clothes on.” Dean muttered as Sam wandered into the kitchen in nothing but his boxers.

“Can’t…” He held up his broken arm. “Sweats are dirty and I can’t do the jeans.

Dean winced, because there too was evidence that Dean was no hero. If he had been, Sam wouldn’t have been hurt. “You could ask for help.”

Sam grinned at him. “You’re just jealous that I look better without my shirt on than you.”

Dean gave him a pissy look. “Yeah, that must be it…and not the fact that you’re gonna get sick and I’m gonna get in trouble for it.”

Sam didn’t answer, just took a bite of the apple in his hands and came to flop down on the couch beside his brother. “What’re you watching?”

“Stupid game shows.” Dean answered, trying very hard not to notice how Sam’s naked torso was pressed against him, radiating heat. “Dude. There’s a whole fucking couch, you gotta be in my lap?”

Sam responded by putting his head on Dean’s shoulder.

Dean exhaled slowly. His body shifted unconsciously to make Sam more comfortable, ending up with Sam’s back press against Dean’s chest. Dean closed his eyes, breathing in the smell of Sam…the vague scent of shampoo, the warm smell that was uniquely Sam’s. His body flushed, first with a desire he could never admit to, then with the shame that always came with it.

He shouldn’t think about Sam that way…about kissing him….about tasting him…Dean shook himself and pushed up off the couch. “Come on, let’s get you dressed before Dad comes home and has a fit.”

“Dude, I was comfortable.”

“Don’t argue Sammy.”

“It’s Sam.” Sam pouted up at him.

“Whatever. Get up.” Dean’s voice was gruff, angry and he headed toward the bedroom without looking to see whether or not Sam was following.

Sam did though, Sam always did. Dean shook it off and fished a clean pair of jeans out of the dresser, tossing them at Sam as he came in. “I already said I can’t do the jeans.” Sam whined.

“Put your legs in them, I’ll do the rest.” Dean said, looking for a t-shirt.

Sam fought his way into the jeans and Dean turned when he heard him “mmmph” and fall to the bed. “Doofus.”

“Dickhead.”

“Bitch.” Dean cuffed him playfully on the head and threw the shirt in his face. “Get up.” Dean grabbed the waist of Sam’s jeans where it rested on his thighs and pulled as Sam stood. He ended up on his knee, head ducked under Sam’s cast heavy arm, fighting with the button.

The smell was stronger here…musky Sam smell that combined with the heat and Sam’s hand against his head filled Dean’s head with bad, wrong things. He closed his eyes and turned his head away before he did something they’d both regret. “Zipper,” he breathed in warning and felt Sam suck in, pulling his dick out of harm’s way.

Dean could tell he was flushed as he stood and Sam was laughing. “You okay Dean?”

“Head rush, idiot. Give me the shirt.”

He manhandled Sam into the shirt, though he was gentle when he pulled the material over the broken arm. “There, dressed.” He reached up to pat Sam’s head like he was a little boy and exhaled almost violently when Sam crushed him in a hug.

Dean pulled away quickly, hoping that Sam hadn’t noticed a decided problem below his belt. “What was that for?”

“Thanks.”

“Whatever. Should I brush your hair for you too?”

“Prick.”

“Baby”

“Asshole.” Sam stormed away and Dean sighed in relief. His cock was hard, and images of his brother filled his head. It was sick, fucked up. He threw himself across the bed and stuck a hand in his pants. He came fast. He always did when he let himself think about Sam…about Sam’s mouth around his cock…he hated himself for it, and after cleaning himself up in the bathroom sink, he’d go out into the living room and pick a fight with his brother to make himself feel better.

He wasn’t any kind of hero…and maybe he could make Sam started to realize that…maybe if he did, he wouldn’t look at Dean with that…look…and Dean could finally let go of this thing…this perverted desire…Sam looked up from the couch with a grin and Dean shook his head.

No…he wasn’t any kind of hero.


End file.
